


Son of Mine

by ayheycheerio



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:21:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23836825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayheycheerio/pseuds/ayheycheerio
Summary: The life of Dorian Pavus through the eyes of his father. Told through a collection of eight short stories (and 1 epilogue), each capturing an important stage of Dorian's life, we will explore the complicated relationship between father and son from beginning to end.Fair warning, this is only somewhat canon compliant, as not much was given. I had to take artistic liberties whenever I cannot remember the facts, or the facts are missing.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus & Halward Pavus
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	Son of Mine

**Part 1 - Scion**

  
  
His son was born in the peak of summer. 

Even now, he could relive that day to its finest detail.

Heat, damp and oppressive, covered his estate like a soaked blanket that day. The courtyard gardens beyond the tall, arched windows of his elaborate mansion buzzed with insects desperately seeking escape from the blazing sunshine. Scent of salt and minerals blown in from the nearby sea with each humid breeze stuck in his lungs, thick and suffocating. 

He had paced the hallway just outside his bedchamber, fists tucked into elbows. Sweat dripped from his brow, down to his neck, and into the gold-trimmed collar of his black silk robes. His neatly trimmed black hair was a greasy and tangled mess from his fingers raking through them in frustration. 

Servants and slaves dashed in and out the bedchamber without end, carrying jugs of boiled water and fresh towels. Their simple black cotton robes stuck to their lanky bodies with perspiration. Each time they intersected his path, they darted past as if he were invisible, as if his gaze alone would set them ablaze. They would rather withstand the stifling air of the room, where his wife's cries of pain punctuated the soft murmurs of her attendants, than to face him. 

For nearly a day now, he had listened helplessly to his wife's cries of pain from behind the velvet curtains of their elaborate four poster bed. The curtains were the calming shade of a dense forest at midnight and thicker than the wool of a mountain ram. Nonetheless, they did nothing to muffle the wails and moans. 

Midwives were crowded around her to attend to her every need. One clasped her hand and another wiped her forehead with a handkerchief, cooing words of encouragement.

An elven slave with skin like oiled bronze stood by a large open window, which had its matching dark green curtains drawn back to let a spotlight of golden sun strike across the bed. She was swaying an elaborate gold thurible like a pendulum, slowly pushing the smoke of burning incense into the crowded room. Beside her was a portly old man with hair the color of storm clouds, clad in impractically baroque black and gold chantry robes, mumbling a prayer under his breath with his holy book open in one hand under the stream of sunlight.

Aquinea Pavus, his young wife of one year, had always been partial to superstition. To welcome her first child, she had spared no expense. The Reverend Father sent by the temple to bless the birthing was the most demanded in all of Minrathous. All it cost was a small fortune in donations to the Black Divine. Still, Halward could not refuse her request. He would take no chance either. Not with a momentous occasion such as this. To his credit, the Reverend Father had been earning his keep. He stood guard over Lady Pavus without rest since he arrived two days ago, except to sleep during the darkest hours of night.

His wife howled with pain as she made another unsuccessful attempt at pushing. Was childbirth always this long and difficult? As the only child of his father, Halward had no opportunity to witness a birth. 

To his own surprise, for the first time in many years, he found himself praying to the Maker. Not for his wife, but for the child. _His_ child. Please let it be healthy, Halward pleaded silently, his eyes pressed closed in concentration. As if doing so would allow his thoughts to reach the babe struggling to be freed from its prison of flesh. 

From the moment he first heard news of the pregnancy, his world had brightened from the spark of joy that ignited in his soul. As he watched his wife’s belly slowly grow with each passing day, his heart danced with excitement while his mind raced with hopes and dreams for his scion. When months later he felt the early stirrings of life with his bare hands, a kick strong and willful, Halward knew. His child would be deserving of the Pavus name and all that it represented. 

Under the burden of their ancient lineage, his child’s life would not be an easy one, that much was certain. Halward knew well the sacrifices that his father, and his grandfather before him, had made for the Pavus name. Generations of hands stained crimson by the battlefield that was Tevinter politics had built the tower of prosperity his family now rested in. Keeping that tower standing had made his own hands just as filthy in just four short years. There was simply no alternative. Favor with the reigning Archon was a paper sword paid for with blood and duplicity. One badly weathered storm meant heads rolled, favor or not. Compared to the petty game of masks played in Orlais, machinations of Tevinter nobility was an intricate dance in a nest of sleeping vipers. Each entrant must execute each step perfectly, each guided by tradition, to avoid stepping on a tail or crushing an egg. Fail, and everyone who shared the nest died with you. 

Still, Halward would stop at nothing to forge a path through the chaos for his child, as his father had done for him. Tevinter was not the jewel of Thedas as it once was, but it had not been defiled beyond hope. Though he may not see it in his lifetime, his child would carry out justice to those who spoilt their homeland with their treachery, and polish the empire to a radiant shine once more. As his legatee grew, protected by his shadow, Halward would instill in his child the morality Tevinter deserved. Then one day, if they danced well enough, his child would ascend the precipice of greatness and usher in a new golden age.

The midwives were counting again. A slower, more forceful pace this time. One. Two. Three. A screech from his wife followed that made his hair stand on the back of his neck. He halted his pacing and waited by the door to the bedchamber. He watched the ongoing commotion as one would watch the horizon just before dawn broke.

The midwives repeated the count, and again his wife screamed with effort. The piercing sound carved into his memory like cracks in the earth after a violent quake. Yet another futile attempt.

One midwife leaned in to whisper a few words of comfort to his wife, who was drenched and sunken into the softness of the bed. Her golden skin had lost its usual glow to a sickly grey sheen of sweat. The satin sheet which covered her lower body had a large blossom of blood where her legs joined. She was naked, except for the heirloom necklace of large gemstones she refused to take off for any reason. Not even on the night of their wedding. Seeing her trembling and weak from her determined toil to birth their child made Halward almost love her.

Again the midwives counted, chanting in unison to grant their lady strength. Another drawn out scream in reply that made the breath catch in his throat. The heat of summer was suddenly gone, and he felt frozen to the bone. Gooseflesh covered his arms, under his long silk sleeves.

Then, nothing. A scalding silence fell over all present.

What little composure he clung onto crumbled and he burst into the room, shoving a servant delivering towels out of the way. The other slaves and servants who filled the room parted obediently once they saw him enter, heads bowed. As he neared, he heard the worry in murmurs of those closest to his wife. 

His heart dropped like a stone into his gut. No, it cannot be. The Maker would not be this cruel!

The Reverend Father was by his side when he arrived by the bed. They acknowledged each other with a respectful nod as they watched the midwives work to wrap the tiny limp body in a blanket. Each passing moment of silence was excruciating.

Then, abruptly, the most beautiful sound rang out from within the blanket. Unmistakably a baby’s cry. Vehement and full of vitality.

The midwives cried out in relief. His wife let out a sob as happiness overwhelmed her and collapsed back into the bed. Claps and cheers from the onlookers soon overwhelmed the stifling space of the room. 

Even Halward could not help but smile as his eyes stung from tears of joy. He let out the breath he had been unaware he held, and savored the stale air that reeked of incense mingling with iron and sudor. Finding a seat next to his wife on the bed, he thought her the fairest maiden alive, when only yesterday he could not bear to be in the same room. In this moment, after what she had endured for his sake, he felt nothing but appreciation. 

Still breathless from her hard-fought victory, Aquinea paid no attention to Halward as he sat. Instead, her eyes were trained tightly on the small bundle of the softest velvet their formidable wealth afforded. Accepting the babe with eager arms from the midwives, with what little energy remained in her body, she cradled the child with a tenderness she had never shown her husband.

“It’s a boy, Lord and Lady Pavus.” One midwife, a woman whose plumpness was indicative of numerous birthings of her own, announced proudly. 

“A boy!” Aquinea broke out in laughter at the news. 

Triumphant as her laugh was, it was laden with bitter venom. In words unspoken, it told Halward that she had accomplished her wifely duty to give him a child. A son, no less. There was nothing else she would give him now.

Perhaps on any other day he would have been offended, and perhaps he would have retaliated with his own dose of poison. But today, as he regarded the wriggling baby boy in her arms, his head reeling with excitement, he would condone her insolence. He would consider it an equitable recompense for her suffering.

“Beautiful and healthy. Blessed be to your good fortune, Magister Pavus.” The Reverend Father confirmed as he hovered over the infant, whose cries had quieted into soft coos.

Halward eagerly took his turn examining his son. Skin the color of aged honey, smooth as a marble statue and softer than the finest fleece. Silky dark hair stuck to his scalp, still damp with the mess of birth.

Halward had never gazed upon anything so perfect. 

He broke out in a wide grin, shocking the cheering servants around him into silence. As a staunch practitioner of stoicism, he did not smile often. So now, for his mask to break so easily, he realized he must truly be happy. Possibly for the first time since he inherited his father’s place in the Magisterium five years prior.

“What shall we name him, Halward?” His wife said weakly, her voice hoarse and shallow.

A name. The first step to the legend his child - his _son_ \- would become. Many names raced through his mind, from his father’s to the ones graced by Archons past. No, he needed one that was unique. That was suitable for an Archon the Tevinter Imperium has never seen before. The name of an Archon that will finally change the nation - no, the world - for the better. 

Suddenly, the choice was clear. It was a name that has not been seen for centuries, but resonated powerfully in his mind. 

“Dorian.”

“Dorian? Where in the Maker’s name did you pull that from?” Lady Aquinea Pavus questioned in her usual astringent tone now that her strength was returning.

“It is ancient in origin. It had been the name of a philosopher who championed reform in a time of darkness. A perfect designation for our son who will bring back the majesty of Tevinter from before the Fall.” He answered composedly, though his eyes were bursting with warmth as they beheld his child.

Lady Pavus looked down thoughtfully at the beautiful baby dozing peacefully in her arms, and smiled. 

“Dorian Pavus.” She muttered softly. “He wears it well.”

Halward felt another smile pry at his lips.

“Yes, he does.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for taking the time to read this. Since this is the first author's note, I wanted to expand on my motivations for writing this a bit (not that it needed to be). Playing through the game as Dorian's companion, and lover, I was automatically biased toward the Altus mage. Little by little, slivers of dialogue reveal a tumultuous history between Dorian and his father. This absolutely fascinated me. We are told the horrible things Halward has done as a father and hate him for it. But if we scrutinize the crumbs dropped for us, we can also see the undertone of filial love lingering between father and son. 
> 
> Thus, I set out to bring light to this love, because it is beautiful and deserving of attention. A father who loves his son, and rests his hopes and dreams on his son's shoulders. Who was that? How did their relationship degrade to the point where Halward would say those fated words, "you are no son of mine"? 
> 
> This was not an attempt to vindicate Halward, but rather to color him in. That being said, I am not an expert on Dragon Age lore, which is too expansive and complex for my meager brain. I did my best to fill in the gaps with my imagination. Naturally, there will be areas where I am dead wrong in terms of lore. Please forgive them. My hope is that my flavoring of Thedas does not ruin the enjoyment of the entree (this story).
> 
> Finally, as a disclaimer, updates will be very slow. I am not immune to being bribed with comments and encouragement, however. Thank you so much, once again. 
> 
> \- The Poor Squire


End file.
